'Bullshit, Broekman said, leaning against the Nakodo's rail. He had come up from the engine room for a cigar, and met Hisako sitting near the stern on a deck chair, reading. She joined him at the rail, looking out to the heat-wavering line of green hills; the bombardment had taken place somewhere behind them.

'You don't believe that? she said.

Broekman spat the stub of the cigar down to the waters of the lake, and watched it drift slowly under the stern. 'Ah, it all sounds very plausible… more plausible than what we saw, perhaps… but it wasn't what we saw. It all started at once, and I didn't hear any jets. The PAF wouldn't get everything that coordinated anyway; God help us, they'd probably have bombed us if they had been around.

'I thought that was why we keep all our lights on.

'Yes, good theory, isn't it? Broekman laughed, clasped his hands over the rail. 'Never convinced me. He spat into the water, as if aiming for the cigar stub. 'First time any terrs take to the water at night, and the Guard call up air support… we'll get clobbered. You watch. Excitable bastards; just as well the Yanks don't let them fly at night.

The last two days had been peaceful. The only unusual activity they'd noticed had been a couple of National Guard patrol boats, venturing out from Gatún and Frijoles to disturb the peace with their droning outboards. Broekman had watched the inflatables with binoculars, claiming he half-expected them to be towing water-skiers.

Hisako had ventured out on deck after lunch. Her cello practice took up about two hours each day, but that was what she thought of as her 'tick-over' rate; it would take the prospect of a proper master class or a concert in the near future for her to summon up the enthusiasm to practise more thoroughly. She did some keep-fit in her cabin; her own mixture of Canadian Air Force exercises and aikido movements.. But that could only hold her interest for about an hour, so she still had a lot of time left to fill each day, and got bored watching television in the passengers' lounge or the officers' mess. Mr Mandamus's appetite for interminable games of chess and gin rummy seemed undiminished, but she could only take so much. That was why she'd been teaching him go. To her surprise, there wasn't a go set on any of the ships, so she'd made one, drawing the grid on the back of an outdated chart and scrounging three hundred washers from the ship's stores; half brass, half steel.

Philippe had radioed again that morning; they could go diving tonight if there were no further excitements. She'd agreed.

'Well, she said. 'It all seems peaceful enough.

'Mmm. Broekman sounded unconvinced.

'Though Panama seemed peaceful, until that explosion, she admitted, trying to imagine what he was thinking. 'And the canal seemed peaceful, until they blew up the lock… and sank that ship in Limón Bay. She shrugged. "Third time lucky", she quoted. 'Don't they say that?

Broekman nodded. 'They say that. But then there's the third light off the one match, too. Broekman snorted. 'They also say look before you leap, and he who hesitates is lost… so take your pick.

'Three is unlucky? I thought it was thirteen.

'Three if you're lighting cigarettes. Thirteen for voyages.

'In Japan, four is an unlucky number.

'Hnn, Broekman said. 'Just as well we don't have another ship here then.

'I wonder if the Panamanians have an unlucky number, she said, still watching the hills. 'I liked Panama. The city, I mean.

'It was all right, Broekman agreed. He inspected his thick, blunt fingernails. 'Very… cosmopolitan. He was silent for a while longer, then added, 'We might have had something like that where I come from. Hnn. He pushed himself away from the rail and clapped his hands together. 'Well; no rest for the wicked. He winked at her enquiring expression. 'They say that, too.

She went back to her book.

She'd taught him the rudiments of cello playing. He took to it quickly, though he would never be very good, she thought, even if he wanted to be; his hands were the wrong shape and probably not supple enough (but she got to touch those hands). He began teaching her to dive. He was experienced, qualified to tutor others in diving, which made it all even more correct and proper, and pleased her. They swam and dived, and she was adolescently, roguishly delighted by the slim, muscled body he revealed. They swam beneath the boats, inspected the buoys they were moored to, investigated the floor of the lake, with its felled, drowned forests and traces of roads and trails, and swam round some of the islets near by, circling the summits of the mostly drowned hills under the quicksilver carpet of waves.

He talked, in a self-mocking but still fascinated way, about how some day he'd like to dive in the harbour of Portobelo, on the Atlantic coast of Panama; the body of the English sailor Francis Drake had been buried there in a lead coffin. Imagine finding that!

She thought that it must happen, then that it never would. She went through brief storms of despair and elation, never trusting herself to believe fully that she really wanted it to happen, never able entirely to stop thinking about him. She discovered he was married; depression. But they were unofficially separated, both thinking about it; elation. She found that Marie Boulard, the junior officer on Le Cercle, didn't interest him, even annoyed him a little; elation. But then that they had had a brief liaison; depression (and dismay that she was depressed and a little jealous). She started to wonder if really he was gay; depression. Then she told herself it was good to have a friend, and if he was gay it would probably just make them even more relaxed together and they might become close friends; pretended joy, faked resignation.

He likes me because he spends so much time with me. He only pretends because there's nothing else to do. He's humouring me; I'm old and pathetic and he won't even have thought about it and if I made a move he'd be revolted, feel it was like his mother making a pass at him. No, he really does like me and he doesn't want to say or do anything because he feels he'll lose me as a friend, and I ought to flirt more obviously to encourage him. But if I do he might think me ridiculous; I might be ashamed, and this is a small community; not Tokyo, not Sapporo, not a university… more like the size of an orchestra. An orchestra on tour, living in the same hotels; that was probably closest. Settle for a friend, then…

And so she went round in circles, on the trapped ship.

She moved his fingers over the neck of the cello, bending her head and neck near him. She stood behind him; he sat on a chair in her cabin. Another lesson. More delicious frustration.

'Hmm; that perfume?

'Kantule, she told him, frowning as she tried to form his fingers into the right shape. 'I bought it in Panama, remember?

'Ah yes. He paused, and they both watched her place his fingers just so on the neck of the instrument, trapping the strings at the appropriate points. 'When I was in Japan, he said, 'few women wear the perfume.

She smiled, finally satisfied with the shape of his hand. She shifted, taking up his hand holding the bow. 'Oh, we wear it, though perhaps not very much, she said. 'But then I'm very Westernised.

She smiled, turned to look at him.

Very close. She felt the smile falter.

'Kantule, he nodded, shaping the word just as she had. 'It is very nice I think. She found herself watching his mouth. He sniffed, frowned minutely. 'No, it is gone again.

Her heart thudded. He was looking into her eyes. Her heart! He must hear it, must feel it, through her breast, her blouse, his shirt and shoulder; he must!

She leant forward a little over his shoulder, so that she looked down the length of the cello. She raised her hand the hand that had held his fingers to the cello neck — to her own neck. She moved her hair aside to reveal her ear, then with one finger flexed it forward slightly. Ici, she said, quietly.